


Harry Potter and the Year He Discovered Magic

by Ellany, NarahLer (Ellany)



Series: Harry Potter Re-Writes and Additions [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Additional Warnings Apply, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Child Abuse, Coming of Age, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt, Magic, Manipulation, Re-write, Rescue, Starvation, Trigger Warnings, True Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 01:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellany/pseuds/Ellany, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellany/pseuds/NarahLer
Summary: Harry Potter is rather weedy for a boy of almost eleven. Concerningly so, actually. As Arabella Figg discovers a horrendous history of abuse, Harry Potter himself finds he is destined for greater things than polishing his aunt's silver cutlery.Join me for a re-write of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. One of many yet to come.POTENTIAL TRIGGERS. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS.





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! I am obviously not JK Rowling and am making absolutely NO MONEY from this. Merely borrowing characters for an enormous undertaking of a creative exercise. Please be aware that this story will deal with abuse and eating disorders, and the aftermath of such issues. Please take care when reading.
> 
> Please note that this story is NOT beta read and all mistakes are my own. If you spot something, please point it out! Constructive criticism is always welcome!
> 
> (The descriptions of eating disorders and their effects come from my own personal experience. I am trying to keep them as stark and true as possible, to avoid glorying ed's in any way.)
> 
> All of that out of the way, please enjoy my attempt at a story.

1: The Beginning

Harrison James Potter was a small boy for almost eleven. He was pallid and gaunt with eyes that aged his face far beyond his years. His bones were frail and misaligned in several places that ached when winters grew cold. Beneath the overly-large, threadbare clothes he wore were a myriad of black, purple and blue splotches that never quite managed to turn yellow. Despite his glasses, he could not see; behind his eyes there was a constant pressure. Under stretched, dry skin were starkly visible ribs, and beneath those was a rattle in his lungs that he could never remember living without. In short, Harrison James Potter was dying.

Curled up on a collapsing cot under what could only very generously be called a ‘sheet’, Harry Potter was slowly dying. His internal clock told him that within minutes, he would have to be up and in the kitchen, making breakfast for his cousin, aunt and uncle; whose house he lived in, in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry was grateful for the cupboard as he had been frequently informed that without his aunt’s generosity, he would have ended up on the street, in an orphanage or dead; as no-one would ever want such a useless thing as himself.

A quiet snip advised him that his cupboard had been unlocked, although he only exited the cramped space when he heard his aunt’s quiet treads above him, ascending the stairs. Almost silently, he closed the door behind him, and tip-toed to the kitchen, careful not to make a sound until the kitchen door slipped into place. Breathing a sigh of relief, he allowed his rough, cracked heels down to the floor, taking the pressure off an out-of-shape and bruised toe that he suspected was at least fractured, if not broken. He proceeded with the making of a breakfast feast; sausages, bacon, pancakes, toast, scrambled eggs. Acrid instant coffee for Uncle Vernon, PG Tips black tea for Aunt Petunia, sugar loaded orange juice for Dudley. Plates, bowls, cups, glasses, cutlery and a silver-plated tea service made their way to the round dining table covered in a hideous, pink, frilly cloth via Harry’s small and shaky hands. Breakfast foods on serving platters followed. Last to reach the table was a large and carefully decorated birthday cake that read ‘Happy Birthday Dudley!’ in orange icing. Avoiding a small mountain of presents, Harry set to opening the curtains and clearing away the last traces of evidence he had ever been in the kitchen. He rang a small glass bell and retreated to his cupboard with plastic cup of water and two salted crackers from his food allowance.

What followed could only be described as barely contained chaos. Two sets of thundering foot steps, followed by a lighter set. Crashing, banging and swearing in the kitchen.

“Where are my presents?” Dudley’s highly irritating whine was so loud, Harry heard it as though he was standing next to his ludicrously spoiled cousin.

“Over there, darling, in front of the television. Eat some breakfast first, you’re a growing boy after all!”

“One hundred percent right, my pet! In seven weeks our Dudders will be off to Smelting’s to become the finest wrestler they’ve ever seen.”

Harry’s cousin Dudley would be off to an expensive private secondary school come the end of summer. Harry had yet to find where he would be placed, as he too had finished his primary education although he did not harbour any high hopes. With his extremely poor eyesight and constant headaches, he doubted that he had done well enough in any of his end of year or entrance exams to gain admittance anywhere, not to mention all of the times he had missed school to avoid questions from the staff. Dudley would be a great wrestler, all right; if Harry’s experience at being his sparring partner was any indication. Although his usefulness as a ‘partner’ may have been diminished by his uncle’s beatings over any perceived slight, accompanied with manic mutterings; his aunt’s obsessive need for a perfectly polished house and garden, without doing any of the work herself; or by his extreme malnutrition.

Harry allowed himself to feel sorry for just a moment, muffling a hacking cough within his balled-up blanket. He had contracted the cough from a bout of pneumonia he’d had as a toddler, before he was brought into the house and had a sleeping pile in the garden shed.

A sharp rapping on the door was his only warning before his Aunt Petunia stuck her nose into his cupboard, the rest of her face following after.

“Boy, we are leaving for the day. We will allow you two minutes to shower, and believe me, I will be checking the bill. Weed the garden, then take yourself to Mrs Figg. We will be home late. I will collect you when dinner is required.” Petunia looked at the sickly child who was her nephew, huffed, and snapped the door shut again, mumbling about ‘burdens’ and ‘stupid sisters’.

The scuffling noises in the front hall disappeared with the slam of the front door closing, and Harry took in as deep a breath as he could, leaving his cupboard once more, and heading to work on the garden. After over an hour of pulling weeds from the flower beds bordering the back lawn, Harry washed his hands and feet under the icy-cold hose and snuck a gulp of water. Trudging into the house, Harry made it upstairs and quickly stripped off, enduring the freezing blast from the shower as he scrubbed as quickly as possible, leaving streaks of red contrasting against his grey-tinted skin. Shutting the shower off, He prayed that it had been less than two minutes as he dried off with a ratty, rough towel; draping another of Dudley’s old, faded t-shirts onto his scrawny frame, tightening his most presentable pair of shorts with a length of twine. Retrieving his only pair of shoes from his cupboard, Harry gathered up a small bit of energy to smile as he left number four Privet Drive and made his way to his neighbour Mrs Figg.

Mrs Figg was an odd lady who owned many cats, but she was kind to Harry. She told him stories from her time as a child, let him play with her cats and had once tried to feed him chocolate cake, but it had just made him quite ill. Nevertheless, Harry was looking forward to seeing her again.


	2. Arabella Figg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finds a small measure of comfort, and the spirit of a warrior begins to be revealed in an unlikely source.

2: Arabella Figg   

Upon arriving at Mrs Figg’s front door, Harry tentatively knocked his knuckles against the polished walnut panelling and was only waiting a few moments before the door opened. In a flurry of activity, he was quickly pulled inside and found himself with his faced pressed in to the soft, cashmere covered shoulder of Mrs Figg as his favourite cat (don’t tell the others) Sebastian, wound his way around Harry’s legs, softly bunting him. Mrs Figg released Harry, then, holding him by the shoulders, took a long look at him; her sharp eyes flickering over his face and her fingertips slightly digging into his bones. 

“Right then dear! Into the kitchen with you. Bring Sebastian, will you?” Without another word, she dropped her hands and turned to move towards the kitchen. Harry bent down slightly, scooping up Sebastian, curling him into his chest and feeling the warmth from the cat as his fingers got lost and tangled into long fur. Rounding the corner and into the living room, Harry was greeted by happy meows and yips, and he tried to pet as many of the cats as possible on his way to the kitchen. 

Mrs Figg’s kitchen was bright and airy, with lightly painted walls and cool white ceramic tiles making a backsplash for her counters. The breakfast bar was laid with a small assortment of fruits and a jug of iced cucumber water. 

“What’s this, Mrs Figg?” Harry’s voice was small and unsure as she took Sebastian from his arms and through into the conservatory to lounge on the cat tree her late husband had crafted. 

“Just breakfast, little love. I thought we could eat together.” 

“Together?” 

“A nice healthy start to the day, yes? I noticed the cake was making your tummy upset so I hope this is better.” 

Harry’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed when he became sick. It wasn’t good for people to notice. People couldn’t notice because then they would ask questions and Uncle Vernon would - 

“Maybe it’s because I don’t eat sweets at home?” Harry’s voice was just this side of off. The hopeful lilt in his voice that Mrs Figg would believe him was almost disguised by the natural uptick in tone accompanied by questions. Almost. 

“It could very well be, Harry. Let’s try with the fruit today.” Arabella was no fool. She may not have magic or a genius IQ, but it was as plain as day and she had known it since the first day she laid eyes on him. Harry coughed into the neckline of his shirt as Mrs Figg carefully selected pieces of watermelon, strawberries, apples and pomegranate seeds into a beautiful, painted clay bowl, and poured a cup of ice water for Harry. He took a sip to clear his throat and clambered onto a stool to start picking at his fruit. 

“Take your time, Harry dear. And while you’re eating, have you ever heard the story of Persephone?” 

Harry shook his head, and so, with a twinkle in her eye; Mrs Figg relayed the whole tale of Persephone and how she was kidnapped by Hades. How Hecate, the goddess of the Underworld and of Magic, helped Demeter find her daughter and return to the surface of the world, but that due to her ‘contract’, the simple eating of pomegranate seeds, she must return to the Underworld each year. 

By the time she had finished, Harry had been so enraptured with her story that he had cleared his bowl of fruit, with only a few interruptions from his poor lungs. He winced slightly, feeling quite uncomfortable with a full stomach. 

“C’mon dear, time for a nap.” She took Harry by the hand and led him to a soft, worn leather couch an covered him with a knitted blanket, disappearing for a moment, only to return with Sebastian, allowing him to curl up at Harry’s side. “Close your eyes, Harry. Rest just for a little while,” her voice soft and gentle. Harry nodded and drifted into the darkness. 

Harry blinked his eyes with caution, the room dimly lit around him. He reached forward and snagged his glasses from the coffee table, squinting even with them on. He made out the shape of Mrs Figg, slightly hunched over at a writing desk, rolling a thick, oddly coloured paper into a tight scroll; sealing it with a ribbon. 

“What’s that?” Harry asked, his voice still slurred by sleep. 

“Just something for an old friend.” Her accompanying smile was thin. “You’re just in time. I believe your uncle is coming up the road just now.” Harry stiffened, but rose and folded the blanket into a neat square. 

“Thank you, Mrs Figg, for being so generous.” His eyes were cast down, as he attempted to say goodbye to every cat and kitten in the room. 

“Nonsense, Harry. You’re welcome here any time.” Her hand laid a fleeting caress to the back of his head before the doorbell rang. There were a few solemn seconds before the doorbell rang again. Mrs Figg opened the door to Aunt Petunia’s rather intrusive nose and guided Harry back to his aunt. 

“Many thanks, Arabella. I know he can be quite a handful.” Aunt Petunia’s snobbish tone conveyed that she didn’t really care at all about seemingly inconveniencing other people for her own benefit. 

“Not at all Petunia. Good day?” 

“Pleasant enough. Well, we’ll be off now. Dinner to make and all that.” The impatience was clear.

“Don’t let me keep you! Tell that dashing son of yours ‘Happy Birthday’ for me,” Arabella was delighting in every second she could delay this infuriating woman. 

“Will do, Arabella. Ta-ta!” She took one last look at Harry as he was dragged away, restraining herself from slamming the door at Petunia’s back. She quickly grabbed the scroll from her desk and hustled to her attic, attaching the report to an intelligent-eyed barn owl and watched as it flew away. 

 

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ 

 

Arabella Figg was, to put is shortly, absolutely boiling with fury. Her latest report to the bumbling nitwit had been a week ago. A week since she had that precious, hurt boy under her roof. A week closer to Harry’s eleventh birthday and nothing, _nothing_ , from the supposed greatest wizard of all time. A week since he had disappeared back into that vile house. She just wished for something, anything, to happen. Anything to being one step closer to removing Harry from that household for a good period of time. 

Three days after that, she very clearly remembered the age old saying: “be careful what you wish for.” Arabella Figg awoke on that Tuesday morning to at least a hundred owls gathered on Privet Drive. She would remember that Tuesday as the day Hell seemed to break loose on a quiet, Surrey street.


	3. A Flurry of Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm a failure. Sorry!

3\. A Flurry of Letters

A week had passed since he’d seen Mrs Figg and Harry missed her terribly. His heart ached for the kind and generous older lady. He’d never met Mr Figg, but could only imagine that he would have been as compassionate, loving and peculiar as his wife.

He tried to cough, but only succeeded in wheezing.

After making dinner on the night of Dudley’s birthday, he had tripped on his way back to the kitchen, managing to catch all but one of the dirty dishes following dessert - Uncle Vernon’s company mug. It hadn’t smashed spectacularly or anything like that - it only obtained a small chip on the bottom ridge; it was still perfectly serviceable.

Uncle Vernon hadn’t thought so.

He flew into a rage, his doughy face becoming an alarming shade of burgundy as spittle flew out of flabby, shapeless lips. He’d thrown Harry to the ground, smashing his head into the counter on the way down.

When he’d woken up in his cupboard, Harry found himself still bleeding from his head wound and covered in tiny shards of ceramic. Although he had no mirror to see in the room, Harry knew his throat must be a violent, dark shade. It hurt to breathe. As he had lain there over the next few days, he had heard furious whispering around the time the post should arrive. A gasp on Wednesday, a choke on Thursday, a discomfited sigh on Friday, a drill on Saturday after the post had already arrived, a smug silence on Sunday and most alarmingly, a shriek of surprise from the downstairs bathroom next to the cupboard on Monday morning.

Now it was Tuesday, and Harry was slowly fading out of consciousness. His stomach had long since stopped growling, his bowels and bladder had voided for the last time two days ago. He was barely clinging on to life; he knew he should have been dead several days ago - while humans can live for two weeks without food, they should only be able to survive two days without water.

_I guess Aunt Petunia was right. I really am a freak._

Then, a sharp rap at the door.

 

—————————————————

Hey! Sorry I disappeared for an eternity - I was working through some not-so-great stuff. But I think I can say that I’m back! I’ll try and get the new chapters out (up to chapter 10) in the next few days *I guess that means a bunch of quick writing for me* But after that I hope to stick to at least one chapter a week, maybe more if my uni load isn’t too heavy for that week.

It’s wonderful to see that the Harry Potter community is still alive and well, even quite a few years after the last original movie was released.

With love and hope,

Your (probably not-so-) favourite Slytherin Disappointment xx

(as always, any mistakes are my own, not beta’d, so please feel free to point any out to me! con-crit always welcomed with a smile)


	4. Can We Call It A Rescue If We Think He’s Dead?

4\. Can We Call It A Rescue If We Think He’s Dead?

 

Petunia bustled herself towards the front door, running her hands through her perm as she did so. She suspected it was her neighbours coming to compliment her on her roses, or maybe to enquire about the Potter boy, and when he would be leaving for St Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. She flicked her hair one last time and reached out her bony hands for the latch. On the other side of the door was not at all who she expected. She was tempted to fall into a dead faint at the sight of a nightmare from her past. In front of him stood a stern woman, chestnut hair showing a few strands of grey. Her neatly pressed pant suit with sensible shoes and a silk blouse may have even impressed Petunia, if she did not notice the cat hairs present on the fabric.

“Hello, Petunia.” The voice was darker than she remembered.

“Abomination,” she answered, almost cordially. Severus Snape was taller than he was when she had last seen him, almost 19 years ago. His hair was the same, though. Just like her nephew’s, blacker than night. But at least Snape’s was tamed, even if it did tend to frame his face like a pair of rather unsightly curtains.

“Pardon the interruption, may we come in?” The prim woman spoke with a light Scottish accent.

“I would rather you didn’t.”

“In that case, please bring Mr Potter to us,” his voice sent a shiver down her spine, just like it had as a teenager.

“Unfortunately,” (she didn’t care), “I am unable to do that,” (there was no way she would touch that filthy dead weight, even to drag him from her home. That would be Vernon’s job. As soon as they were sure the boy was dead.) “You see, Harry has run away. After we informed him that he would be attending St Brutus’, he packed up all of the belongings we had graciously provided him and absconded into the night.” She flickered her eyes towards Snape’s abyss like ones. “I guess he must take after his worthless parents after all.” Petunia froze and fell backwards, as stiff as a board, to the floor.

 

“Come now, Severus, there was no need for such drastic action.”

“She has become even more irritating in adulthood that she was as a child. I wasn’t about to listen to her drivel on any longer.” Minerva shrugged and stepped over the threshold as Severus slipped his wand back into the holster beneath his corduroy jacket.

 

She took a further two steps into the house before detecting a weak and desperately fluttering magical signature.

“Surely not,” she took another step, “surely not, Severus. Arabella must have been mistaken.” Her face had become an ashy colour.

“Figg sent you an emergency message, yes?”

“Yes, Severus, but I could not - “

“Could not, what, Minerva? Imagine the boy was leading such a banal life instead of ordering servants around as a celebrity?”

“No, Severus, look!” She approached the cupboard under the stairs. “Who puts a lock on a cupboard like this? _One with an air vent_?” Comprehension stole across his face as the man steeled himself, slid open the lock with a quiet _snick_ , and revealed the unconscious boy inside.

“Minerva, take my arm.” A swish of air, then two professors and a boy-who-maybe-lived arrived in a narrow house at Spinner’s End.

 

 

========================= 10 DAYS LATER =========================

 

Harry Potter did the last thing he expected to. He woke up.

 

It was a gradual awakening, one where he dozed for a good long while before opening his eyes. He wiggled his fingertips and twitched his toes, but the rest of his body felt like lead. Even without looking at the rest of the room, even without his glasses that didn’t really work, Harry could tell that he was no longer in Number 4, Privet Drive. The bed he was lying on appeared to be both firm and forgiving at the same time. Even though his body felt heavy, it didn’t ache. His breath caught as he saw a shape moving in the room, causing him to cough.

He started to panic when he couldn’t, there was something jammed in his throat.

His eyes squeezed shut.

His hands tried to clench.

His mind raced a mile in a second.

 

And then it stopped. A hand brushing through his hair. And then he was asleep.


End file.
